


run out of continent

by nahco3



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M, San Francisco, The lost years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 01:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11302491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: Tommy moves to San Francisco.





	run out of continent

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from Joan Didion:
> 
> California is a place...in which the mind is troubled by some buried but ineradicable suspicion that things better work here, because here, beneath the immense bleached sky, is where we run out of continent.
> 
> standard disclaimer: this fic is just a product of my imagination and in no way real, please please don't share this fic with anyone mentioned in it!

Dan meets Tommy at SFO with a big hug. “Welcome to the best coast, dude,” he says, somewhere between joking and sincere, and for a stupid second it makes Tommy want to curl up into a ball and cry. He missed this. The last few months in DC he found himself going to bars, on dates that went nowhere or to network, and looking at the drinks menu, picking out the drink Favs would order or the appetizer Dan would get. Thinking about the joke Jon would make to get the waiter to laugh, frozen for a second and unable to remember what he was supposed to order or say or want. It’s nice to be back with someone he knows better than himself. 

It’s summer, so the fog (“marine layer,” Dan says, and Tommy shoves him for being such a nerd) sits cold and salty over everything. After the sticky heat of DC and the recycled plane air, it’s strange, surreal, to be cold again; to smell the sea in the middle of a parking lot. Tommy has goosebumps.

“You can borrow a sweatshirt,” Dan says, because he’s a dad at heart. He drives them into the city, NPR a low murmur in the background. Dan takes the scenic route -- the curve of the hills and low-slung fog melting into the building blocks of a city and then, suddenly, the expanse of the Pacific Ocean, big and cold. Dan rolls down the windows and smiles.

“I’m so glad you got out of there,” he tells Tommy and Tommy nods, agrees, bites off a hangnail.

\--

It doesn't take him that long to settle in. He calls his mom and his step-mom to give them Skype tours of his apartment, and tries not to think about how this is the first place he's ever lived that his dad won't ever see. (He knows that's why he made Cody move into the apartment he used to share with Jon, that he still thought of as Jon’s years after Jon left for California, because he couldn’t bear the idea of living somewhere his dad hadn’t helped him move into.) He finds which bodega he likes and a running route without too many hills and a coffee shop with fast wifi and lots of plugs.

He talks to Favs a lot, mostly text and email, mostly about work. He gets dinner with Dan and his wife once a week. Jon calls him at odd hours, daily and then not at all for weeks, loud and all over the place, in the car honking his horn and missing his exit. When he hangs up, Tommy’s apartment is quiet again, the bay shining at the bottom of the hill, the green of Marin beyond. He itches to text Jon right after, desperate and pathetic, but he doesn't.

“You gotta come down to LA,” Favs says, at the end of a work call.

“You should come up here,” Tommy counters, safe in the knowledge that Favs and Jon won't ever bother. “Dan and I are having a great time without you.”

Favs laughs, warm and open like always. “I still don't get why you didn't come to LA. San Francisco is crazy expensive.”

“I don't think I'm really an LA person,” Tommy says. 

“How would you know?” Favs says. “You’ve spent like five minutes here.”

“It's just a vibe,” Tommy says, because Favs has never felt out of place in his life, doesn’t understand what it felt like seeing Jon, Favs and Emily, Andy, all of them together, like a fucking sitcom in the LA heat. He’s better off up here.

“We’ll come up soon,” Favs promises, well-meaning.

“Can’t wait,” Tommy says, knowing something will come up, that he won't see them until he gets himself together enough to go to LA.

\--

“Can't wait,” Tommy says. “I'll see you Tuesday?”

“There better be a glitter fucking sign,” Jon says. “Two glitter signs, one for each of your hands.”

“What makes you think I’m going to pick you up at the airport?” Tommy asks. “I don’t have a car.”

“Well, I heard that the subway has flesh-eating bacteria in the seats so I know you’re not going to abandon me to become a zombie, Thomas.”

“It’s called BART,” Tommy says. “Also, take an Uber.” 

“Maybe I oppose the neoliberal Silicon Valley destruction of traditional blue collar jobs,” Jon says. Tommy snorts.

“Take a cab,” Tommy tells him, already adding Jon’s flight to his calendar.

\--

He brings a sign to the airport. It’s stupid but it’s fun to have something to do at night that isn’t drink and watch sports by himself while aimlessly texting different ex-Obama group chats. He goes to the bodega and gets a poster board and some Elmer’s glue and some glitter. It takes him a while to decide what to write -- he only has one chance so he doesn’t want to fuck it up. He hasn’t seen Jon in a while, doesn’t really know what he’s up to anymore or what his hair looks like or how sad he actually is: the little things that don’t come across on the phone. So it’s hard to think of the kind of joke he’d like best.

In the end he just goes with flattery, which is reliably effective. He writes HOLLYWOOD POWER PLAYER, block capitals, thick lines, lots of glitter. He uses some old copies of the _Chronicle_ to catch the excess, because he doesn’t really need his kitchen to be rainbow forever. Jon would probably find a metaphor there, one that left Tommy feeling shitty about himself. Tommy leaves the poster to dry overnight on the table and goes to bed. 

He takes the BART to the airport, mostly to make a point, and because Ubering everywhere gets expensive fast and his rent is a lot. Fenway is doing pretty well but it’s still stressful, not knowing if next month will be better or worse than last one. Tommy doesn’t always deal with uncertainty well. He tells himself it’s better than the NSC was, at the end, when the only certainty was a paycheck, 18-hour days and a grinding sense of terror and inadequacy. So he’s trying to save money when he can. 

He gets to arrivals early, sits with his sign turned in toward him on one of the benches, trying to write an email on his phone. He’s not sure how much work he’s going to get done while Jon’s here. It’s stupid to hope but he does anyway and it tugs at the center of his chest, makes his pulse race up his carotids and his breathing speed up; not that different from a panic attack. 

They’ve had phone sex a few times since Jon moved to LA, when Tommy was weak and exhausted and desperate and failing the president, but they haven’t touched in person since the night before Jon left DC. Tommy can only think about that night obliquely, the memories still too much to look at head on: like archival photos or fading pages of an old diary, too fragile and rare to be handled except in low light, with gloves on. 

The key to happiness is low expectations, Tommy tells himself. It’s something his dad used to say to him, when he was in high school and took everything too hard. It’s good advice. He’s happy to see any of his friends, to explore the city with them. That’s it. 

His phone buzzes -- a text from Jon, saying he’s landed. Tommy goes to wait with the husbands, wives, boyfriends and children who are gathered in the arrivals area. He holds his dumb sign. Eventually, Jon comes out, backpack slung over one shoulder, pulling his bag behind him, head down, on his phone. He’s probably tweeting. Tommy’s heart twists in his chest, that old, reliable ache. Jon looks up from his phone just before he walks into an old lady. He’s in the middle of apologizing to her when he sees Tommy and his sign. 

It’s a good moment. His whole face changes, gets wide and open, his eyes bright. He laughs and runs towards Tommy and for a second Tommy remembers that Jon’s a few years younger than him, and then Jon’s in his arms and he isn’t thinking of anything else.

“Nice sign,” Jon says, into Tommy’s chest. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Who says the sign’s for you?” Tommy asks, his mouth close enough to Jon’s curls that his lips brush against them. He’s let his hair grow out. Tommy likes it. 

“Shut up,” Jon says. He still hasn’t pulled back from the hug and Tommy takes the opportunity to run his hand down Jon’s back, feel the solid presence of him. “You’re such an asshole.” 

“Good to see you too,” Tommy says, shutting his eyes just for a second. Jon pulls back and Tommy realizes the people around them were watching them, in the curious, impersonal way people do at airports. It makes him flush, knowing what they’re thinking, what he wishes, how obvious it all is.

“I have glitter all over me,” Jon complains, trying to brush himself off. 

“Welcome to San Francisco,” Tommy says, “it’s a municipal law here. Every time a gay person arrives they get covered in glitter.” He takes Jon’s backpack and his bag from him. The backpack is heavy, probably filled with five books that Jon is reading and his laptop. He hands Jon the sign, because he figures Jon will want to carry it. 

“What about bi people?” Jon asks. “Did you get glitter?”

“I got Dan and one of his old Cornell sweatshirts,” Tommy says.

“Wow, that’s incredibly biphobic,” Jon says. “I can’t believe you have to have sex with women and also talk to Dan Pfeiffer for more than five minutes.” 

“Hey,” Tommy says. He likes Dan. “He’s not as boring as you think.” 

“That’s just because you’re comparing him to reporters,” Jon says. “Lower press gave you some kind of Stockholm syndrome, I swear to god. I’d hoped you’d be over it by now.” 

“Funny you say that,” Tommy says, “because we’re meeting Dan and his wife at this great vegan place for dinner in like an hour.”

Jon yelps and hits Tommy. “We are not, _we are not_ , fuck you, are you joking?”

“Of course I am,” Tommy says, laughing. “We’re going to the Mission to get burritos, calm the fuck down.” 

\--

They get burritos and eat them in Dolores Park. It’s just before sunset, and the light falls golden over the park. Jon has to dig a sweatshirt out of his bag, but after that he’s fine. The green curve of the hill is covered with people eating dinner and smoking and playing with their dogs. Wisps of fog blow by, hanging between the palm trees and the impossible blue of the sky. 

Jon eats his burrito in big bites, complaining about how the grass is too wet and it’s too cold, the weird people playing hacky sack next to them, in a way that Tommy knows means he’s happy and doesn’t know how to say it. 

“You could sit on your backpack,” Tommy offers. He takes a sip of his Coke and wishes he’d thought to bring some weed. Jon would like that. 

“It’s too lumpy,” Jon complains. He looks over at Tommy, appraising, so Tommy looks back. He has a little bit of guacamole on his nose. He’s gained a little weight since the last time Tommy saw him but he wears it well: round cheeks, his arms a little bigger, shoulders broad in a way that makes Tommy to run his hands across them, solid thighs. His curls are a mess and he has maybe a day of stubble, like he forgot to shave this morning. 

“You’re the only person who has ever moved to LA and gotten paler,” Tommy says. 

“Shut up,” Jon says, coloring. He kicks Tommy’s leg. “I drive everywhere now.” 

“God, that’s terrifying,” Tommy says. He’s still looking at Jon. He can’t stop. 

“This grass is so wet, everyone is going to think I peed in my pants,” Jon says, abruptly. Tommy thought they were done with the grass conversation but then Jon stands. 

“Uncross your legs,” he says, bossy, so Tommy does, squinting up at him. 

“You aren’t allowed to complain about how fat I am now,” Jon says, and before Tommy can protest that, he’s sitting down on Tommy’s lap. 

“Better,” he says, wiggling a little bit. Tommy puts his burrito back in the bag, wraps an arm around Jon’s waist to keep him in place. Their legs are tangled, and Jon is firmly on Tommy’s thighs. Tommy levers himself forward a little so his chest is pressed closed to Jon’s back. It’s not the most comfortable position but it doesn’t matter. His other hand, he runs down Jon’s thigh, rests it just on the inside of Jon’s knee. His heart is pounding, his mind jumping from one set of contingency plans to another. He couldn’t be sure at the airport, he can’t be sure now. But. Maybe. 

“Comfy now?” Tommy asks, into Jon’s ear. 

“You’re less lumpy than my backpack,” Jon concedes, as though this hadn’t all been his idea. 

“Glad to be of service,” Tommy says, slipping his hand under Jon’s sweatshirt to palm his stomach, his pinkie brushing low, feeling Jon tense above him and under his hands. 

\--

They get ice cream at Bi-Rite after, because Tommy wants to draw it out. He likes this part, so much, the frisson of anticipation, the way Jon keeps looking at him sideways. Jon tries ten different flavors and then just ends up getting the salted caramel. Tommy pays and their hands brush, once, twice, until Tommy grabs Jon’s hand in his, rubs his thumb across Jon’s knuckles and then releases it.

They eat their ice cream waiting for the Muni, Jon relaxing by degrees until he’s leaning against Tommy. There’s no part of this that Tommy didn’t miss, but the easy physical contact, the touches that come before foreplay, are something he could never replicate in his imagination. 

Tommy pays for Jon’s fare because Jon doesn't carry cash as a rule, and they sit pressed together close, the seats made for people smaller than Tommy. Jon takes the window seat and looks out at San Francisco as night falls: the grey streets, glass and steel buildings and Victorians and seventies concrete monstrosities pressed together on the hillsides. 

“Do you like it here?” Jon asks, his voice a little wistful. 

“I don’t know yet,” Tommy says. “It’s. Different from DC.” 

“Good,” Jon says, sharp. Tommy wonders when Jon started hating DC so much, if it was before he left or after, why he keeps writing TV shows set there if it was so bad for him. 

“How’s LA?” Tommy asks. It’s a question he asks a lot, a question that Favs answers with so much uncomplicated happiness. Jon never says the same thing twice and never gives a real answer: Tommy recognizes misdirection, did it professionally for years. 

“You know,” Jon says. “Lots of projects, lots of meetings, the networks are idiots, everyone’s awful and 40 pounds thinner than me and a fucking monster.”

Tommy squeezes Jon’s thigh and presses their shoulders. “I miss doing something that matters,” he says.

Jon looks out the window resolutely, just for a second pressing his knee back against Tommy’s. He doesn’t say anything, but then, Tommy didn’t expect him to. 

\--

Tommy’s apartment seems small when Jon’s in it, seems full. Tommy puts Jon’s bags in the living room, by the couch, because he doesn’t want to assume anything. Jon walks over to the window -- the first thing anyone does. At night, you can see the moonlight on the bay, the lights of the city. The Gate isn’t in view because of the fog, but its foghorns echo at odd hours, loud and deep. 

“Selling out’s treating you well,” Jon observes. 

Tommy shrugs. “I had some money from my dad, too,” he says. 

“You’re trying to make me feel bad but it’s not going to work,” Jon says, still not turning around. He looks so good in Tommy’s space, in his worn Williams sweatpants clinging tighter to his thighs than they used to. His ass is a little damp still. “Instead of being a crass capitalist I am staying pure and practicing my art and I won’t let you shame me for that. And I definitely won’t let you shame me for not having a fucking inheritance, you elitist pig.” 

Tommy laughs. “First to the wall when the revolution comes, that’s me.” 

“I’ll be the cute guy with the pitchfork,” Jon says. Tommy steps up behind him and kisses the back of his neck and Jon arches back into him, pulls Tommy’s hands to his waist.

“What I like about you, Tommy,” Jon says, “is your brain was so warped by Disney movies you have no idea how real people have sex.”

Tommy noses aside his curls and bites down. “I have literally no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, pushing Jon’s sweats down to his knees, rolling his hips against Jon’s ass. Jon braces himself against the windowsill and rocks back into him. 

“You know,” Jon says, voice already getting breathy, “carrying my bags around all day like.” Tommy kisses behind his ear, bites his ear lobe just a little and Jon cuts off. “Like I’m not a sure thing,” Jon finishes, as Tommy runs a hand up Jon’s chest, under his shirt, tweaks his nipple.

Tommy’s never been sure of Jon, of his moods or what he’ll say next, if he’d spend the night in Tommy’s bed or go back to his own right after, if he wanted space or wanted to cuddle, if he was staying for re-election or leaving everything for his dream job, what his dream job was, if he liked any of the guys he fucked around with more than Tommy and if that even mattered.

Jon turns his head a little bit and Tommy kisses him, deep. It’s been so long, almost two years, and he thought he’d never forget how it felt, but he was wrong because it’s so much more than he remembered. Jon parts his lips so soft and sweet, but then bites back at Tommy. The angle isn’t great but Tommy can’t stop himself, twisted up, breaking them apart just so he can kiss Jon again. He works his hips against Jon’s, runs his hands over Jon’s arms until his hands rest over Jon’s on the windowsill, holding him in place. 

“Whatever will the neighbors say,” Jon murmurs into his mouth and Tommy bites him on the side of his neck. He’s giving himself beard burn. He moves a hand from Jon’s, holds it to Jon’s mouth. 

“You know what to do,” he says, and Jon gives him a short cut-off breath. 

“We are not getting off in your living room,” Jon says, and then sucks on Tommy’s fingers, slow, obscene. Tommy lets Jon decide how much he wants to take. His lips are plush, smooth and soft, under the pads of Tommy’s fingers. Jon moves his head forward, taking more in, running his tongue around Tommy’s middle finger in circles. 

Tommy shuts his eyes and presses his face into the back of Jon’s head. Jesus christ. 

“We aren’t,” he says, his voice rough. “You are.” 

Jon chokes on Tommy’s fingers for a second, even though they aren’t that deep, and Tommy squeezes Jon’s wrist, digs his nails into the tendons on the soft underside. 

He pulls his fingers out of Jon’s mouth because he wants to hear him, slides the spit-wet hand into Jon’s boxers. Jon’s dick is hardening, and he works it, his body remembering how Jon likes being jerked off. 

“Don’t move your hands,” he tells Jon, pulling his other hand away from Jon’s wrist, bringing it up to brush Jon’s curls out of his eyes. They’re damp with sweat, just a little. He touches the skin at the side of Jon’s eyes, the corner of his mouth. His whole chest is tight, his heart beating fast and uneven. He’s got to do something with his mouth before he says something stupid. 

He keeps working Jon’s dick, but his other hand comes to rest at Jon’s hip, holding it still. His fingers dig in for a second and then he gets down on his knees. 

“Tommy,” Jon says, voice high. “Tommy.” He sounds incredulous, voice cracking. They only did this once in DC, but Tommy remembers the way Jon came undone for it, defenseless against him. He presses his face into the small of Jon’s back and kisses him there, and then down each knob of his spine, slow, trailing kisses. 

He has to take his hand off Jon’s dick to push his boxers down until they join Jon’s sweats in a pile on the floor. Without Tommy’s hand holding Jon’s hip in place, Jon starts to work his hips back, abortive, and Tommy pinches his thigh, hard.

“Be good,” he says, mouth in one of the dimples at the base of Jon’s spine. Jon shivers and Tommy pinches his thigh again.

“Say yes,” Tommy says, moving to the other dimple, biting down. 

“Yes,” Jon says, fast, like he’s already not sure what he’s agreeing to. “God. Tommy. You don’t -- need to, I, it’s fine.” 

Tommy strokes his hand up the inside of Jon’s thigh, stopping high up, at the place where his thighs rub together. He moves his mouth a little lower, just to the top of the curve of Jon’s ass. 

“I want to,” he says, because it feels like a point worth making. Sometimes he wants to beat the shit out of everyone who made Jon feel like that, like what he wanted was optional, like every inch of him wasn’t worth spending time learning and knowing. Sometimes it just makes him highly motivated.

He lets one hand stay on Jon’s thighs, an anchoring touch for them both. The other he brings up, carefully, to Jon’s ass. He digs his fingers in, uses his thumb to push Jon apart just a little.

Jon shifts, his muscles tensing and loosening under Tommy’s hands and he can tell Jon’s fighting to stay still for him. It makes him feel too much, emotions that are too big for his body, too big for sex, for the room, for the city, for the earth. 

“Tommy,” Jon begs. “Please, Tommy, god. Just.” 

He starts slow. He knows it’s a lot for Jon -- because Jon told him, afterwards, the first time, face pressed to Tommy’s chest, still shaking, and because he can read it in Jon’s body, the fine tremor in his thighs, how he goes from words to noises to breaths, so fast. He tries to keep it just on the edge of too much, pressing his tongue against Jon, kissing him, running his fingers carefully over the ridge of his hips and his thighs before he presses in. 

When he does, Jon makes an animal noise, pressing back against him for just a second, his breath breaking up, stuttering inhales and sharp shattered exhales. Tommy can’t punish him for the movement; he’s shaking too. He forgot how it was. He takes his hand off Jon’s ass, puts it in his own pants and squeezes the base of his own cock, hard, digging his thumbnail into the side of it until it hurts. Not yet. His other hand he runs up Jon’s thigh one last time, cups him gently. 

He wishes he could see what Jon looked like, if his head is hanging, his neck unable to support it, if he hands are white-knuckled on the windowsill because Tommy told him to keep them there, if he’s biting his lower lip or if his mouth is slack and open. He wishes he could watch, but not enough to stop. 

He can’t hold himself back anymore, his hand working Jon’s dick while he fucks his tongue into him. Jon stays in place for him, lets Tommy set the pace until he shakes apart, coming in Tommy’s hand, his muscles spasming, his breaths like sobs, catching and ripped out of him. 

Tommy squeezes the base of his own cock again, once, just to be sure, and then pulls back from Jon, just a little, to kiss the base of his spine again. It’s covered in fine sweat. Jon’s breaths are still coming uneven and rough. 

Tommy’s not sure he can talk yet he knows one of them has to. “Jon,” he says. Jon collapses, Tommy’s arms coming up to catch him on his way down, pulling Jon in against his chest. One of his hands is still covered in Jon’s come, leaving stains on Jon’s skin. Jon’s hips are pressed against his dick. Tommy’s so hard. 

“Gross,” Jon says, his voice a little sing-song. He buries his face in Tommy’s neck. “‘m gross.” 

“Do you want a shower?” Tommy asks. All he wants is to get them into bed. 

“I don’t get why you like that,” Jon says. “Don’t kiss me.” Tommy’s running his clean hand up and down Jon’s back. He can feel the expansion of his rib cage through the skin, the aftereffects still working their way through Jon. He brushes his nose against Jon’s temple instead of kissing him.

“Ok,” Tommy says. “I can brush my teeth.” Thank god this apartment is so small, he’s not sure he can manage moving that much. Jon’s quiet again so Tommy maneuvers them to their feet and into the bathroom. He turns on the shower and gets Jon the rest of the way naked, shooing him in before brushing his teeth for two minutes and gargling some mouth wash, for Jon. 

He shucks off his clothes and pulls back the shower curtain. It’s small, and Jon’s sitting in the middle of it, folded in on himself, his curls soaked. There really isn’t room for both of them with Jon like that, so Tommy gets down on his knees again, crouched next to the shower, ignoring the ache. 

“Jon?” he asks, reaching into the shower to grab Jon by the shoulder. Jon turns to look at him, blinking water out of his eyes. Tommy’s cold and wishes he’d left his boxers on, but he’s made a bigger fool of himself for Jon Lovett before. 

“Sorry,” Jon says. “I should probably stop feeling sorry for myself and suck you off or whatever.” 

“I don’t give a fuck,” Tommy says. 

“So how’d that measure up?” Jon asks, conversational. “The new and considerably worse Jon Lovett experience.” An advantage of the last two and a half years of Tommy’s life is that he’s finally learned how to parallel process seamlessly, keep the brainless and terrified part of himself tamped down, stay cool.

“Can we please have this conversation either in bed or in the shower,” Tommy says, “this tile is really cold.” 

Jon stands, gesturing for Tommy to come closer, and Tommy steps into the stream of water. They’re close enough to each other that Tommy can’t really see Jon. He tips his head back, lets the water hit him in the face, reaches blindly for Jon until his hand finds the strong curve of his shoulder. 

“I like eating you out,” he says, into the spray, glad the water is so hot he can’t tell if his face is heating up. 

“Because it’s like girls,” Jon says. Tommy’s so surprised he opens his eyes, getting water in them. 

“What?” he says, blinking and trying to rub his vision clear. 

“I mean it’s a working hypothesis,” Jon says. 

“I know you went to public school,” Tommy says, “so your sex education was like, Mitt Romney telling you condoms kill babies, but eating pussy and eating ass are pretty significantly different.” 

“We had great sex ed,” Jon says. “Pretty heteronormative but otherwise not bad.” 

Tommy can tell Jon wants to derail this conversation, regrets whatever he was trying to start saying. Tommy was pretty bad at his job in the end, but Jon’s nowhere near as good as the people who used to lie to him. 

“Why’d you come see me?” he asks. He grabs his body wash, squeezes out a handful and starts washing Jon off. It’ll be easier if they don’t have to make eye contact, whatever’s coming. Jon leans into his touch, which is a good sign at least. He tries to keep himself calm. 

“You’re like, my second-best friend,” Jon says. 

“Harsh, Lovett,” Tommy says, his hands following paths his mouth left earlier, passing soft over marks and forming bruises. 

“True, Vietor,” Jon says. “Look.” He shuts his eyes. “Forget I said anything. Fuck me or something.” 

“Shockingly, not that appealing an offer,” Tommy says. 

“Oh, I forgot you like me begging for it,” Jon says, voice with an edge now. He smirks at Tommy, performative. “God, Tommy, please, please, I’ll just -- fucking -- please.” He moans. “Better?”

“Fuck off,” Tommy says, feeling sick. He rinses off his hands and gets out of the shower, stepping over their dirty clothes to grab a towel. 

The shower runs for a second longer and then Jon steps out too. He has dark circles under his eyes and Tommy wishes he could stay angry with him. He gives Jon his towel.

“I don’t get why you hate yourself,” Tommy says. 

“The thing is,” Jon says, “you really fucking don’t, do you.” He has Tommy’s towel draped around him like a cape. 

Tommy shrugs. “I mean, you’ve never fucked up something so hard a UN ambassador almost lost her job.” 

Jon looks at him. “That wasn’t your fault.” Tommy walks out of the bathroom. He needs to get dressed and get drunk if they’re going to have this conversation.

Of course, Jon follows him, plopping down on his bed and watching as Tommy pulls on a pair of sweats. 

“Did you think you had to leave?” Jon asks. Tommy lies down on his bed next to Jon, shutting his eyes. They’re not touching.

“I couldn’t stay,” he says. “But also. That job,” and he doesn’t mean job, and Jon knows that. “That was all I had. After. Everything, you know? It was the only thing I had left. And I let him down.”

“You couldn’t let down Obama if you tried,” Jon says. Tommy lets out a shaky breath. “You’ve never let a single person down in your idiot life.” Jon pauses, and Tommy listens to his breathing, the shift of the sheets under him. “I get it,” Jon continues. “You miss it and you don’t miss it. You wonder if you peaked before you were 30. You don’t know who you are without his name attached.” 

“I know a few things,” Tommy says, opening his eyes and finally turning to look at Jon. He’s closer than Tommy thought he was. Tommy touches Jon’s cheek.

Jon closes his eyes for a second. “Sorry,” he says, quiet.

“Don’t,” Tommy tells him, not sure what he’s even apologizing for, and kisses Jon.

They go slow. Tommy isn't in a rush, his urgency from before has bled away during their fight. He just wants to feel close to Jon, which is pathetic, but there it is. It's all he ever wants.

Jon doesn't seem to be either, seems happy to kiss and be kissed. He tugs Tommy on top of him. Tommy braces himself on one arm so he doesn't crush Jon. Jon wraps his arms around Tommy’s neck, his towel falling open. Their naked chests are pressed together, and Tommy runs a hand down to cradle Jon's thigh. It's so much, after two years apart, so good. Everywhere they touch sends sparks through Tommy: always did, still does. He kisses Jon deeper, pulls back to rub their noses together just a little bit, gentle.

“Oh Tommy,” Jon says, soft, fond. His lips brush Tommy’s, a breath away from a kiss. Tommy rolls over to the side, leaving a hand on Jon's hip, unable to bear losing contact. Jon turns his head to follow, kissing Tommy on the cheek, while Tommy shucks off his sweats one-handed.

“What do you want?” Jon asks. The bedroom is half lit, by the light from the bathroom and the living room. It makes it hard to read Jon’s eyes, hard to see the details of him Tommy missed so much. 

“Whatever,” Tommy says, meaning _you_ , reaching for Jon, pulling them flush, their legs entangled, another lingering kiss going nowhere. Tommy's getting hard again; Jon isn't. It doesn't matter. Tommy let go of his plans for them in the shower, let go of his expectations two years ago, is left only with hope.

Jon makes a little noise into the kiss. “Leaving me in charge,” he says. “Dangerous choice. What if I were really into something super weird now? What if Hollywood turned me into a deranged sex freak?”

Tommy laughs. “You already were a deranged sex freak,” he says, stroking a hand up Jon's back to the nape of his neck, cupping his head. His hair feathers through Tommy’s fingers. “I’m into it.”

"What is wrong with you?” Jon asks, moving to straddle Tommy’s thighs, so Tommy’s hand falls away from him. “I'm going to give you a bad handjob and make you look at me and you're going to actually like it.” His voice is changing again, going from joking to sharp-edged, the kind of joke that isn’t one. Tommy wishes he could make Jon’s whirring, incredible mind quiet down, focus on only him, but he already tried that tonight and look how it worked out.

Tommy stretches back, arching his hips a little so his cock rocks up towards Jon’s hands. He puts his hands behind his head, smirking up at Jon like something from whatever bad prep school porn Jon thinks his life was like, once.

“I am,” Tommy agrees. He's had more time to work out since he left. Mostly he does it to keep from going insane but the way Jon’s looking at him, hungry, is a benefit he never let himself think of when he was dragging himself to the gym at 5 am. His whole body is suffused with the encircling warmth of Jon’s thighs and his gaze, radiating out from the center of his chest, painful.

“You,” Jon says, sounding as though he aimed for exasperated and missed it. He spits on his hand, not trying to be sexy but something about it makes Tommy breathless anyway, and then leans forward slightly to jerk Tommy off. Tommy loves the furrow in his brow, the little quirk in his mouth as he figures out the best angle for it. 

Jon works him steadily, his grip a little loose. Tommy reaches out one hand to hold onto his hip but he’s otherwise content to watch Jon, naked, with him, after all this time. 

“Look at you,” Jon says. “Jesus fucking christ, you must have been dropped on your head as a child.” 

“You want notes on that?” Tommy says, moving his hips up mostly on instinct, his body seeking more friction. He rubs his thumb across Jon’s hips. 

“Not really,” Jon says. “You like the dumb shit I say.” 

“I do,” Tommy says, helpless to deny it, spread out under Jon. 

“Why?” Jon asks, tightening his grip now just a little, so it’s perfect, twisting his hand a little more on the upstroke the way Tommy likes. Jon’s watching him, intent, and Tommy feels off-balance, exposed. 

“I,” he starts, then stops, his breath coming heavier as Jon runs a hand down between his legs, his finger gently rubbing at Tommy. He shuts his eyes.

“Look at me,” Jon says, “if you like to so much.” Tommy does, knows his eyes must be wide. He reaches for Jon with his other hand, his fingers brushing against Jon’s thigh, until his hands are bracketing Jon’s hips. 

“Why me?” Jon asks again. “You could have anyone on this fucking earth.” 

Tommy’s sure there’s no explanation that Jon would accept from him: only the one he’s tried to give, wordlessly, for years, that Jon has refused or ignored, rejected, crossed the continental divide to escape. He’s coming apart in Jon’s hands.

“You know why,” he says, cracked open, and comes. 

Jon doesn’t clean him up, just flops off him and presses his face to Tommy’s neck. Tommy pulls him in close, grabs one of Jon’s hands, entangles their fingers. Jon pushes their hands down into the mess on Tommy’s stomach, rubbing at it, before pulling his hand away from Tommy’s to lick it clean. Tommy looks at him, lost. 

“Told you I’m a sex freak,” Jon says, his tongue peeking out of his mouth to lick the corners of his lips clean. 

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, turning over and pressing him into the bed, smearing his come between them, tasting himself in Jon’s mouth and chasing the feeling, messy and fragmented, as deep as he can.

**Author's Note:**

> my customary thank you: to [threeturn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn/pseuds/threeturn) for making everything I write smarter and better and more emotionally coherent, to [veryspecificfantasies](https://veryspecificfantasies.tumblr.com) for beta-reading and for her kindness and enthusiasm and love which sustains me, and to [y](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton%22) for timeline help and encouragement. they're all beautiful gems and I can't imagine writing anything without them.
> 
> also, of course, thanks to this whole fandom for being so kind and helping to make 2017 more bearable. love you all.
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com).


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